Mr Snufflelumps
by Wends
Summary: Squall is suffering from his annual 'most craptastic day ever.' rated for suggested innuendo. SxS if you want. Actually pretty innocent, if you ask me. Happy Birthday, Thien!


Disclaimer: I in no way own Seifer. If I owned Squall, you'd have to pry him from my cold, dead fingers. But I don't. Go pry them from Square-Enix's cold, dead fingers. Then I can battle you for him. Huzzah!

Dedicated to ThienCatVu. Happy birthday, girl! Here's to the bulls.

Placed approximately 1 year pre-game. Thankfully short (namely because these tiny oneshots don't really have that much plot to delve into). Cavity induction ahead, so make certain you brush.

-BEGIN FIC-

Stepping out of the elevator, the brunet youth looked with sour gray eyes at the sprawl before him. Hands stuffed into the pockets of his newest pair of black leather pants, he shuffled with audible scrapings of his motorcycle boots towards the stairs.

It was yet another terrible day in the life of Squall Leonhart. But in the grand scope of things, he supposed, it was actually rather ordinary as of late.

To begin his day, he'd overslept. A long night of sneaking off to the training center to vent his frustrations via his gunblade and some innocent sleepy grats had kept him removed from the soft sheets of his bed for an unnecessarily prolonged period of time. So had the hour-long shower he'd taken after his epic battle against the sleepy plant-based monstrosities, the terrible task of removing grat goo from his chocolate hair seeming more difficult than usual. To top things off, when he'd collapsed onto his perfectly flat sheets laid upon his rock-hard bed, he'd forgotten to set his alarm. And his suite-mate had failed to awaken him.

Seifer was snickering with a wry, smug smirk on his lips when Squall had been forced to stand at attention before Instructor Trepe and lectured heavily on the responsibilities of those who had aspirations to be SeeD and the importance of being on time for all events. Then the snide blond had burst into uncontained laughter when the stormy-eyed brunet had been forced to visit the Headmaster.

Mr. Kramer had been as kind and polite as he could, reinforcing the lectures already poured into young Squall's head. His muttering of how disappointed he was and how he expected so little from his cadets yet had those expectations crushed made the teenager totter at the verge of either bursting into tears and begging forgiveness for his apparent crime and punching the squat man firmly in his nose and turning that horrible sweater-vest an entirely different shade of red. Instead, Squall had opted for the option of crossing his arms and astutely ignoring any further drivel that poured from the Headmaster's lips,

He'd escaped the Headmaster's sunny office, making it to the cafeteria in time to stand behind Zell Dincht, the disconcertingly hyperactive martial artist he attempted to avoid with ponderous failure. Squall had attempted what would only be natural – to sneak away unnoticed, and when noticed, to pretend that he was actually a new cadet named Simon Lambert and had never, never heard of this mysterious 'gunblade' thing. And no, damn it all, he didn't have one to let him see.

The newly tattooed boy had smirked at him and continually hounded him through their time in line, failing to walk forward as the number of persons between them and the counter steadily diminished. Squall had glared with impotent rage as the Disciplinary Committee took the opportunity to slide into line in front of them. Raijin and Fujin smirking and sniggering at one another and Seifer shoving them before himself.

A growl rumbled in Squall's throat as he watched his rival waltz off with the last of the lunchtime hot dogs, one held aloft in each hand as he proclaimed his thanks for 'Chickenwuss' for letting him cut in because, damn it, he was starving.

As Zell wailed in despair, Squall had opted to return to his dorm to get a Lean Cuisine. It wasn't until he got to his room that he'd discovered that he'd quite inadvertently locked his card-key inside.

A good ten minutes of attempting to manipulate the electric lock to regain entry ended in the cadet kicking his own door in. And as fate would have it, that moment was when the bell rang to signify the end of lunch and the recommencement of class.

So, hungry and frustrated, Squall got the opportunity to stand before Quistis once more and endure her lectures, her psychoanalyzing of every posture he made and her professions – always followed by laughter and sappy girlish smiles – of what he had to be thinking to warrant his apparently hilarious facial expressions.

To wrap up his fantastically average day in the life of Squall Leonhart the eternally bedraggled by fate SeeD cadet, he had the mandatory and inescapable option of staying after class for detention to catch up on those lectures he'd missed on account of his tardiness. His time in the room mostly consisted of staring blankly at his computer screen, asking Shiva what he'd done at the moment of his conception to bring the wrath of the dark God Hyne to plague his soul, and sulkily bemoaning the evils of fate as young Instructor Trepe leaned against his desk, commenting errantly on how promising of a student he was and how much her bra itched today.

Shuffling his way down the steps, narrowly avoiding being run down by the kid who continually ran laps and had stolen his ultra rare MiniMog card last week and skulking past the Diamond girls who waved and giggled at him, Squall clomped without deviation towards his intended destination – his slab-like bed with its still rumpled sheets. The dark rage that had steadily filled him through the day, egging him to get his gunblade and steal the lives of some more of those garish little grats, poured through his steel eyes and parted the crowds between himself and the dorms like water before God-blessed holy men. He only let his stiff posture slacken once he was standing in the lobby of his suite, staring at his broken-down door.

"Hey, puberty boy!"

Squall's left eyebrow ticked violently.

His suite-mate was here. The very cause of his horrible day. "Seifer," he curtly responded in stiff, habitual greeting.

His customary smirk plastered firmly upon his face, the blond sauntered to Squall's side, towering over him and laying a heavy, black-gloved hand on the brunet's thin right shoulder, squeezing through the thick leather bomber jacket he wore. "So, the annual 'super craptastic day' of Squall Leonhart draws to a close."

Squall glowered coldly at his suite-mate, the fires of hate burning visibly in their silvery depths as he was forced by Seifer's merry proclamation to recall exactly why last year he'd been forced to dub this particular day, May 4th, as the officially worst day that could possibly plague the calander.

Today's tardiness.

Last year's chili incident.

The year before when he'd been framed by Seifer for the theft and subsequent wrecking of SeeD's newest transport vehicle.

The year before that, when he'd stumbled across Mama T-Rexaur's nest in the training center.

The time he'd been hung by his shoelaces from the top of the elevator shaft, an incident that had driven him to wear boots from that day forth.

The year he'd finally had to part with his favorite yellow shirt, his rival having thrown pomegranates at him throughout lunch until his skin and clothing were a deep crimson shade.

And the worst year of all, the one that started it all.

The year he and Seifer had fought over the stuffed teddy bear he'd had since times before recollection.

Mr. Snufflelumps had lost his head that year. And his arms. And his upper torso. And ninety percent of his stuffing, as Squall and Seifer had allowed the fight to degrade from yelling at each other and pulling at the demolished toy's remains to whacking the snot out of one another with the chunky fluffy bits.

"Shut up," Squall finally replied, his eyes narrowed as he beheld Seifer's apparent amusement with his recollection-induced hesitation in answering.

"Well, if you're going to be bitchy about it, forget it."

"Forget what?" Squall instantly responded, eyebrow ticking in agitated expectation and curiosity.

"Forget it," Seifer said again, his smirk widening and his jade eyes flickering in challenge.

"…." Squall glowered coldly, his stance rigid. A moment later he turned on his heel. "Fine."

"Hey! I wasn't done with you, brat!" Seifer instantly responded, taking one smooth and long stride forward and capturing his diminutive suite-mate by his sleeve. "Stick around for a second."

Turning slowly, eyes solidly silver, Squall glared at his rival. Tethered between curiosity as to why Seifer was so intent that he stick around and the longing that the blond finally squirm under a murderous glower, the brunet stood his ground and prayed silently for the daggers he was imagining gouging jade eyes from his tall associate's skull would actually form into reality. Shifting his weight to rest it on one leg, he let one hip jut slightly out and rested his hand on his belted waist. "Fine. Make it fast. I've got things to do."

"Like what? Mourn the loss of Mr. Snufflelumps?"

Squall's teeth audibly ground together.

After all, that was what started the tradition of May 4th.

Seifer and his stupid stuffed-animal fetish. Squall had only been trying to save Mr. Snufflelumps from a fate most decidedly worse than any his young mind could imagine. But instead of granting salvation, his efforts had ended in the unintentional 'death' of his childhood friend. That very event had haunted the young brunet gunblade-specialist for years.

Rolling his eyes, Seifer huffed. "Look. Why don't you just move past it? That was years ago."

"You killed him."

"Oh for Hyne's sake, Squall! That was a stuffed animal!" Seifer professed.

"He was my friend."

"You're so damned pathetic."

As Squall bristled, Seifer reached into his trench coat. Moments later, the lump that Squall had failed to notice at Seifer's side vanished, emerging as….

"Move on. Maybe once you do that, today won't always be so terrible for you."

Squall's eyes widened, a blush snaking across his cheeks and heat touching his ears.

Mr. Snufflelumps stared at him with its beady eyes, its head barely held onto its body by thick, crisscrossing stitches and stuffing leaking from his years-old wounds.

Reaching for the bear with shaking hands, Squall snatched it from Seifer's leather-encased fingers and stared at it with disbelief.

The repair-job was rough and hardly adequate. And judging by the light dusting of color across the normally unshakably smug blond's cheeks, said repair job was the product of guilt and a hand unfamiliar with the finer qualities of sewing.

"You…?"

"You're such a sulky little brat. Get yourself out of your rut, Squall," Seifer said firmly, his jade eyes flickering. "After all, if you're doing nothing but pouting all the time, you're never going to be a match for me. Not that that's actually possible, but maybe you'll put up a bit of a fight if you're not whining like a ninny. I might feel guilty for crushing you in training like always if this stupid bear's on your mind tonight."

Squall turned his back to Seifer, finding it odd that he couldn't even bristle at the obvious insults and prodding remarks.

He had Mr. Snufflelumps back.

His precious bear.

Who was… what the heck was that between Mr. Snufflelumps….

"SEIFER!!"

The clanging of gunblades roared through the night until the light of dawn.

_-end-_

Heh heh. Use your imagination. You sick perverts. (snerk)

Like it? Hate it? Feedback feeds the monkey. Hoot hoot. (holds aloft her Ansem plushie, grinning as it shouts firmly and with manic conviction "SUBMIT!")


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